CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rose walked beside him, a pace behind and with her regard on anything but him.
Jaw tense, Nathaniel pretended it did not bite at him that she paid him no attention. She had steadfastly looked elsewhere ever since they had met this morning, and only in the absence of her regard had he noticed how he had come to rely upon it. He needed the small smile of greeting she gave him. He needed her voice summarising what they had learnt the day previous. He needed green eyes upon him, and he needed his upon her as she walked, as she sat, as she did anything.
But now she walked by him silently and he found he did not like it. Not at all.
They walked the perimeter of Faringdon Abbey, searching for any detail they may have missed previously. In truth, though, he was consumed by thoughts of her and how she ignored him. It was the kiss. He knew it was such. She was…embarrassed still? Had she determined it an offence? Perhaps she withheld her smiles and her conversation as punishment. Or it could be discomfort. He did not know and he could not read her.
It was only a kiss. It meant little. The fact that his own chest ached when he looked at her, that he had been unable to think of anything else did not give it more importance. His reaction was ridiculous, as was hers. He had no idea how to broach it with her, to make it so she would look at him again. He’d theorised and discarded a hundred responses, the ache in his chest worsening the longer the silence between them grew. It was like an irritation beneath his skin, one he could not alleviate.
“Did you sleep well?”
Great green eyes whipped to him, only to just as quickly look away. “I did.”
The words—the first she’d uttered that morning—were a like a shiver along his skin. He closed his eyes, absorbing its feel even as his logic told him one could not feel a voice.
She did not expound, and he found himself to loath to continue such a banal and pathetic attempt at conversation. He had gone the whole of his life without craving someone’s good favour. Why did he now care for hers?
They rounded a corner, approaching the grounds and garden behind the Abbey. An orangery made of stone and glass jutted from the main house, lush greenery pushing at domed arches. Five doorways lined its face, all thrown open to allow in the summer breeze.
He halted. One of the doors… An emotion flowed through him, one that took him a moment to discern was gratitude. Finally, his thoughts could return to what he should be contemplating. “The orangery stands open.”
Green eyes that did not look at him instead studied the conservatory. “So it is.”
“The orangery habitually stands open during the day at this time of year, does it not? I do not recall the doors being closed at my initial observation. Is it ever locked?”
Opening her notebook, Rose flipped through it, the tip of her tongue pushing at the corner of her mouth. “At night.”
Tearing his regard from her—he should not be imagining the taste of her tongue—he examined each door in turn. “And all doors are secured?”
“Yes.”
The second on the left, it looked… “This lock is new.”
The scent of lemons and rosemary wound about him. She had joined him, standing so close he could feel her breath. His heart pounded. “It is?”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse. Clearing his throat, he showed her what he had already observed. “The lock has recently been replaced.”
Brows drawn, she stared. “I do not recall the work order for its replacement.”
“You have not undertaken Lady Caro’s work since we started our investigation. This was replaced since then.”
“How do you know?”
“I would have noticed.” He examined the door. “I did not as the door stood open then as it does now. Did the constabulary report on it?”
She flipped again through her notebook. He kept his gaze trained on the lock and away from that tempting flesh. “I have no record they did.”
Curious. Turning, he stared into the grounds. “The hunting lodge is that way, yes?”
“It stands empty.” Again she consulted her notes. “There has been no hunt for months, and there is no need for its use when the Abbey is available.”
His mind raced. “How far is it between here and York?”
“Thirty miles or so.”
“So half a day of travel if the weather is fine.”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
He waved a hand, his gaze distant. The solution was there, just barely out of reach. The information was lining up, as it always did, and it would be no different from the other—
The solution hit him, so obvious he couldn’t believe it had taken him this long. Only…was it the solution? For the first time he could recall in his life, he questioned whether emotion clouded his conclusion. He had…not reacted well, and perhaps he sought malice where there was none simply because the suspect had made Rose— “The sister,” he said abruptly.
Rose blinked. “Pardon?”
“The sister had cramps.” A degree of relief filled him. He had followed logic’s path. “She had cramps. Everything makes sense.”
Rose’s brow creased. “It does?”
He strode inside the door with the newly replaced lock. “We must gather everyone together, and have the constabulary on standby. The blue parlour will do, or a drawing room.”
“Why?” She rushed behind him as he strode through the orangery. “Nathaniel, slow down. What makes sense? Why do we need the constabulary?”
Surprise halted his stride. Rose stopped as well, her face creased in confusion. “Because the case is solved,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Her gaze sharpened. “You know who did it?”
He nodded once, sharply.
“Who?”
“I will tell you with the others. In the drawing room.”
“You cannot tell me now?”
“You could, through thought or action, give the culprit a cue. I cannot risk it.”
The flash of something—hurt? Disappointment?—crossed her features. “I can keep a secret.”
She could. He knew she could. But she could also draw attention, and he had already placed in her harm’s way too many times. If she were hurt because of him…or worse… Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? “Nonetheless.”
“Do you believe it Lady Caro?”
The sudden accusation drew his brows. He had not indicated he believed her employer the guilty party. Why would she presume he did? “No.”
“Then I cannot think why—”
“Rose.”
She fell silent.
He did not explain himself. Even to Hiddleston, and his friend often humourously lamented such, or at least he presumed it humourous, as Hiddleston wore a wry smile and others sometimes laughed. But, for her, he would try. “If the murderer knows he is caught, he might react…unfavourably.”
“And you would lose your culprit.”
“No.” Frustration filled him. It chafed, this unaccustomed emotion. “I mean, yes, possibly, but not only that. He could…he…”
Impassively, she watched him as he struggled. “You do not need to tell me,” she finally said.
Relief filled him, and gratitude. “Good.
“I will, as you say, gather together those suspects and the constabulary.”
Her words sounded agreeable, but her shoulders were tense. He frowned. “Rose—”
“Is there anything else you require?” Again she avoided his eyes.
“No.”
With a quick nod, she walked through the orangery door.
Watching her go, he rubbed his chest. Why did it ache? He had solved the mystery and all that remained was to apprehend the culprit. Once done, there was nothing keeping him in Yorkshire. Nothing.
Still rubbing his chest, he followed Rose.
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